as above

The bird flaps its wing

making the air above Light

falls from the fanned flame.

Image credit by D. Dibenski [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Another time

could you tell
the
pre-
occupation was else-
where
by, I mean, analogous to
investment, banking into
listening with the right ear-
I always knew
it was not wrong-
which explains why
I haven't given
much voice,
by choice
to what is left
over

this way
I can hear who said it best
and decide omissions,
sadly some adverbs snuck in
the cracks,

the poet recites
from fissures
showing the weak spots
matching voices,
what could have been
an echo
asked again,
could you repeat that?




Painting by Giovanni Segantini, 1892 in [Public domain].

feather weather

The awkward bird
arose from her branch
puffing up her breast
and shaking her head
discovering a burning
sensation
in her throat
which carried pangs
into her tiny talons.

She tried out
a few simple notes
to crack open the stale air
before asking
the question,

was there a moment,
a degree of light or altitude
a passing gale
ideal
for realization
for comprehension of wings,
to soar, to sore to try again
and again
when did it know
to sing in truth with only vowels

Where did the poet go
in verse?

The owl chimed in
wisely
turning nocturnal
eyes
with avian alibi,
refused to name names.


Painting by Friedrich Thurau, c.1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Formicidae

In moments that require us to stay
put,
against or free will,
tortiously, we may see some relief
in the focus
on a leaf or insects, say
the way
ants seem so purposeful
about their busyness since
distraction eases the
due process-

But then
it doesn't take long for us to
jump in,
and kill it,
this one
Stopped
his trailblazing,
his dead friend lie underfoot,
for a moment
he wondered why,
I could see it-

Anyway, I am moved
by this
and he proceeds to collect
his dead
taking him somewhere

I wonder why
it matters so much,
this weight to bear
the same as when I carried
mine
into their graves,

one realizes in
tense moments
the weight is the same
and ending in a tie
or twist of genes,
neither of us will
come out alive.


Image credited by Lubbock, John [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Brewing

One would easily conclude
that she was in fact,
a witch.

It was not the time,
nor her spelling,
she did not wield a broom
or don a pointed
hat
and yet
we forget
the difference between legend
and lore
we pretend not to see
so we may forget
why we hide
(this information)
or face
persecution.

The insolent one stays inside the lines,
obeys or Believes
that there is a difference between magic
and living, despite
the few that knew
what they have seen or felt
and hid their skeletons
behind the cross.

The witch files her nails
and emits wisps of smoke,
she ruffles through the leaves
for a recipe to reverse
the ingested poison
and faith
found her
scratching the margins,
filling the white space
with letters
to correspond with method
and madness,

she blends in
like a mother.


Painting by János Rombauer [Public domain].

Sheet music

I hope you would agree,
my dearest sole reader,
that the oblivion was everywhere
we were not
interested in the apathy
invested
in each other.

Listen,
I will speak about what comes up
to the surface in poetry
without using names
I will call you,
I will bury you,
I will label and sort it out
of context
placing things in such a way


You think-This is real,
the sound of air doesn't linger
long enough
to touch one another

And yet we float in the same light,
listening
to each other
fall between the lines,
Hear-
we are.


Painting by Anders Zorn, 1905 in [Public domain].

Sky stalker

He was close
      atop the next door
               roofline,
two doors and eight windows away,

I can feel him
not caring
but staring
              at me
              clearly
cocking his head
and aiming his
       attention my way.

I return his gaze
             between two crows feet
I squint
             and am unable to define
where wing
                    and feather divide

like the wind

no where
Now
how he can soar
               based on feeling
a passing breeze
across his breast
plate

I maintain my ground
feeling anchored
under air

the predator holds its breath
while the raptor releases
a piercing scream
before
he takes flight
giving one more glance

downward
I stay affixed
under this eave

awaiting a closure
of wing, sky
and the hungry eye.
         


    
Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'The falcon' c. 2837 in Public domain.